To serve and protect, to support and love
by Marayanna
Summary: Brief moments from lives of Arslan and everone around him. Ch. 1 - Narsus wondered just how did he become a parent of three teenagers Ch. 2 - Elam almost died today
1. Chapter 1

Narsus wondered just how did he become a parent of three teenagers.

He was twenty five years old, much too young to have children their age, and if he was being honest, much too young to have children, period.

He was quite proud of what he managed to accomplish in his life so far. After all, he inherited an important title along with many lands, freed its slaves, stopped the invasion of three united armies, became a member of the court and got himself exiled from it. He felt like that earned him some reprieve, like he could spend the rest of his life making art and reading old books in peace.

His plans had absolutely no place for a child in them, and yet before he knew it, Elam was preparing his meals and cleaning his rooms.

But.

Narsus never felt like he was _raising_ Elam. The boy was his charge, his servant, somebody under his protection. The boy spent the last few years thinking he was fulfilling his parent's last wish by serving Narsus, and he was right. What he didn't know, however, was that his parents had one last request for Narsus as well, and it was to look after their son when they were gone.

And his plans really, _really_ didn't account for this, but what else could he do but to accept their wish?

He fulfilled this obligation dutifully, sharing as much knowledge as he could, letting the boy polish the skills he already had, preparing him for the day he would be ready to leave.

Elam didn't know about that. By the time Narsus realized his parents didn't inform him about their request, it was already too late. The boy needed a parental figure, someone to look up to, to admire, and not having many people too choose from deep in the mountains, he started to idealize Narsus. He was convinced he would spend the rest of his life at his masters' service, hunting for food, preparing meals and guarding a small hut in the middle of nowhere. And Narsus didn't correct him, but instead took an advantage of his eagerness and taught him as much as he could.

One day Elam would outgrow his youthful devotion and Narsus was going to make sure that by that time he would be ready to face the world on his own.

But.

He was not _raising_ Elam. He was determined to repeat it to himself as many times as necessary, so that it would start to sound true.

And regardless of his relationship with Elam, he had absolutely _no_ intention of helping prince Arslan when he suddenly showed up at his doorstep with Daryun in tow. All they could expect was to leave the next morning well rested and after a good meal. He was not interested in whatever was happening outside of his forest.

Which was not a complete truth, of course. But he learned his lesson: the wars would keep happening and they would always be bloody and sorrowful and pointless, and he was tired of finding ways to prevent them peacefully, only to watch all his plans fall on deaf ears.

He was done with the court and the royalty, their constant lust for more power, more wealth, more influence, their petty, pointless intrigues without any higher goal beyond filling one's pockets.

He was perfectly content in his little hut and nothing, _nothing_ , could convince him to leave this life behind.

Well.

Except for one thing.

He froze for a second when Arslan made his outlandish offer, because… Well, he wasn't stupid or naïve. He knew how tremendously different his art was from everything other accomplished artists created. He had seen Arslan's reaction to his painting, though he pretended he didn't. He knew that young prince didn't like, didn't _understand_ his art either.

But the thing was – the boy didn't pretend to. He didn't try to praise Narsus and pander to him, didn't try to appease his ego. He made his offer as any seasoned ruler would, plain and simple, an exchange of favors, because he didn't have to like Narsus' art to use it to his advantage, to create the bait that would undoubtedly lure the tactician in.

 _And he knew Narsus for mere hours._

It was that easy understanding of people's nature, that intuitive knowledge of what drives them, what makes them tick, that made Narsus look at the boy – _really_ look at him.

And before he knew it, he was keeping watch in the middle of the forest and staring at the bundle of blankets that would, in the morning, reveal young prince of Pars, wondering just when had his life become like this. He was helping to lead a war with a bunch of very odd allies, and for all intents and purposes _raising a child._

Damn it all. Raising _another_ child.

Because Arslan might be a crown prince and lead and army, but he was still only fourteen years old, scared and inexperienced and wishing for home. And Narsus' heart bled for him, for a delicate boy thrown in the middle of war and violence and chaos.

Narsus tried to teach him, the best he knew how, to train him in the ways of the world, to create a space for Arslan to feel safe in. He wanted him to try things out when he was curious, to ask questions when he was unsure and, most importantly, to make mistakes, because how else was the boy going to learn to walk on his own path? But, of course, it was a war and not all mistakes could be allowed to pass, so Narsus was always nearby with an advice, a lesson, a plan. It was a delicate balance of serving their master, and helping the boy their master still was.

He knew Daryun was doing the same thing, in his own way. He could see it in the knight's pained eyes, whenever he looked at the noble child pushed into impossible. Whenever he bowed a bit lower, showed slightly more reverence than necessary, just to prove to Arslan that he _had_ them, that there were people around him who were supporting him, always.

He and Daryun never had a chance to really discuss it, what with his friend barging back into his life after four years of absence, bringing chaos and wars with him, and then later with running for their lives from enemies, and finding allies, and gathering information, and running from enemies some more, and by the time they had time to catch their breath, it already got decided.

Arslan was _theirs_. He was their prince, of course, but he was also theirs in other ways, even more important, ways that meant that after particularly harsh day Daryun slept a little closer to Arslan's cot to ease his nightmares, and that Narsus made sure he ate enough before a battle even when he had no appetite, always wore warm clothes when they traveled in the night.

He was theirs like maybe he wasn't anybody's ever before, end whether he realized it or not, Narsus couldn't say. But there was an ease to his smile when they were just with their little group, a sort of openness that only then made you realize that he was guarded in the first place, and Narsus counted that as a success.

He was thankful that Arslan and Elam could meet, that they became companions in age and in hardships, both pushed into the adult world much too soon.

And, of course, there was Alfreed as well.

The girl didn't share much about her past, but the mere fact that she was raised as a future leader of a bandit group deep in the mountains, already a second-in-command at the age of sixteen, spoke volumes about things she had to see, things she had to learn and _fast._

Narsus suspected that it was part of the reason for her current infatuation with him. It didn't have anything to do with real romance, not really. But it must have been lonely to grow up a young girl surrounded by old bandits, their voices gruff and eyes full of untold hardships, days spent on running from justice or planning their next move.

And all the while, there were those new and unknown feelings blooming in young chest without an explanation. And so, the second she was free of her responsibilities, the first time she could _really_ do as she pleased, she latched herself to a first available person – and Narsus just happened to be nearby.

She just needed somebody to direct her youthful, bouncing, energetic feelings towards. She was just like Elam in this, thought they would both reject the notion. And their overblown conflict was another way to find release, to make as much ruckus as teenagers wanted to, to shout at each other without worrying about any serious consequences, to throw insults with wild abandon.

And perhaps, subconsciously, they knew it themselves. Because it was enough for a smallest sign of danger to catch their attention, and their backs stiffened, eyes became sharp and steely, any signs of foolishness gone in an instant. They were ready to infiltrate a city or lead troops or carry a vital message through frontlines, and whatever argument they just had was replaced by hard won trust, the knowledge that the other would have their back no matter what. They fulfilled their duties with more skill than many adults, and they _were_ adults in all but their age, ready to put their lives on the line for a cause they believed in.

And so, the others in their group understood the need for a little foolishness from time to time. That's why Narsus just sighed when he heard shouts again, that's why Farangis and Alfreed had long talks late into the evenings. Perhaps she was hers, Narsus thought, perhaps being parents somehow just happened to them all.

But Arslan didn't have even that.

When the other two shouted, Arslan discussed Sinduran strategy with Jaswant. When Alfreed sat too close and tried to hug Narsus, Arslan wrote messages to strongholds, assessing their numbers. When Elam prepared a petty breakfast from all of Narsus' favourite ingridients and announced it loudly in front of Alfreed, Arslan smiled, indulgent, but there was a small frown on his face and his mind was elsewhere.

And Narsus watched, and his heart bled for all of them.

And, hell. He wasn't a parental material, and neither was Daryun. Neither was Farangis or Jaswant or, gods forbid, Gieve. But the fall of Pars happened, and swept them all in the aftermath, throwing them together, into this group of much too young adults and literal _children_ who somehow wanted to change the world. And they were trying to work with that, the best they knew how, helping each other and maybe even creating a family in the meantime.

So Narsus would take it. He, and the others, would take it upon themselves to care for the children the world entrusted them, and if they couldn't protect them from the brutalities of war, at least they would be there to show them how to deal with it, and how to _bite back_.

They didn't set out to be parents, but if they were going to become ones anyway, then goddamn, these kids would get the best they could.


	2. Chapter 2

Elam almost died today.

The battle was savage, ground sleek with blood and heads pounding with the sound of clashing swords, the shouts of dying people.

Arslan was two thousand feet from Elam when it happened. The prince was surrounded by hundreds of his men, by Daryun and Jaswant and Farangis, as safe as he could be under the circumstances. He didn't learn about the blow that threw Elam from his saddle until after the battle was over. He didn't realize how bad it was until he went to see him in the medical tent and seen all the blood soaked bandages.

And even though Elam smiled through pain and tried to pretend he was better than he actually was, Arslan felt like he received a punch to the gut. Cold realization washed over him and the unspeakable fear wouldn't leave him even long hours after retiring to his own tent.

They were at war, and every war cost lives. It was the most obvious thing. He was trying, desperately, to spare as many lives as he could, to come up with strategies and treaties and ways to save his people, but he knew, he _knew_ , he couldn't save everyone.

There were thousands of soldiers following him, each one with a family and goals and dreams, and after each battle there were those who would never see the future they fought for.

That knowledge stung, laying heavily on his shoulders and shadowing his eyes each time he looked in a mirror after battle and knew that he had survived but so many other teens just like him just… didn't.

But it was Elam who almost died today.

And that was different. It felt just like when Daryun was almost killed by the Beast in Sindra. It was a blood-freezing realization that one day the man could simply fall in battle, be dead and gone, and how was Arslan supposed to go on without him?

How was Arslan supposed to go on without Daryun or Narsus or Farangis? Without Elam?

They weren't just his subordinates, or his soldiers, or his servants. They became a family, born while hiding from enemies during long unsure nights, born while whispering about the future with bright eyes, born in fire and in steel. He never had people who he trusted so completely, who he cared for so crushingly, and who, in turn, trusted him and cared about him as well.

And all he wanted to do was to take them away from danger, hide them where they will be warm and safe and looked after. He wanted to win this fight for them so that they won't have to.

He didn't want to bring them to the war.

He didn't know how he would survive the war without them.

He left his tent and went to the edge of the clearing where they camped, not far, just enough to give himself an illusion of privacy. He looked into the dark forest attempting to order his thoughts, to rebuild his composure. Stared into the shadows until his eyes stung and head hurt.

In the end, it didn't matter. All of his friends could leave him many times over, and yet they were still here. He, himself, could stop this campaign many times, and yet here he was as well.

He would do anything to protect them, anything within his power, but at the end of the day, the only way to ascertain the safety of his friends, the safety of all his people, was to _win._

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned back to go back to the camp.

Only to find Gieve waiting for him just at the edge of it.

He smiled. Of course, these days wandering alone was out of the question, especially with overprotective Daryun pulling the strings. And, of course, Narsus knew him better then he knew himself and could predict the effect this day would have on him. Between these two, he had no doubt that Gieve was chosen as the best person to be there for him now, to share knowledge and give advice, and Arslan walked up to him, ready to accept it.

He stopped by the man's side and for a few minutes they observed the camp in silence. Soldiers ran around, some with purpose some without. There were shouts and laughs and usual evening's bustle, and Arslan was once again reminded of those who would not be able to join in it ever again.

When it became clear that Gieve wouldn't break the silence, Arslan spoke first.

"I know" he started, not trying to make his voice any stronger than he really felt "I want to protect everyone, yes, but I want to protect you guys the most, and yet at the end of the day I can't protect everyone, not with just two hands. I have to take the throne, I have to become a good king and build the country in which everyone will be safe, everyone will be free. And in the meantime I have to trust you, to believe that after each battle you will come back, and even that you will protect those I can't"

He shook his head, "I _know_ all that. And yet. I can't help but be scared for you. For you and every soldier that goes into battle in my name" he finished lamely and turned pained eyes to Gieve, ready to receive a lecture, a word of wisdom, whatever it was that he needed to hear in this hour of doubt.

But Gieve didn't take his eyes away from the soldiers, bitter kind of sadness on his face, and only said, "Good."


	3. Chapter 3

Gieve was not a type of person to settle down, mostly because he found absolutely no appeal in it. He held the title of Court Musician, that was true, and it had a certain charm to it, a flair he could add whenever he was making his introductions to beautiful ladies. But if it meant that he was supposed to actually _stay_ in court all year round, he would throw it away immediately.

Not that it was ever a concern, of course. When Arslan finally became the shah of Pars, he generously rewarded everyone who stayed with him during all those long years of struggle. And so, because it was a reward, when he presented Gieve with his new title and treasures and privileges, he made not a single demand.

But, of course, he didn't have to. At that point they would do whatever the young man wished for, orders or not. They were completely devoted to him, beyond the point of even pretending otherwise.

And so Gieve became a Court Musician, singing both for royalty and children of the streets, traveling to his heart content in the meantime – and coming back, always coming back.

His journeys took him far and wide. Sometimes he was a simple traveling bard, sometimes a political envoy, and sometimes a spy, gone for weeks or months at times. But when he came home, he always found his rooms cleaned and ready, his friends waiting, happy to see him again and hear the new stories he brought with him.

There were times when, upon coming back, he found new faces in the palace, passing guests, princes from faraway countries here to sign treaties with the mighty Pars, lords from faraway lands here to swear fealty to their beloved king. And Gieve sang for them too.

The royal guest he met this time was perfectly pleasant, well versed in royal etiquette, and a bit confused that at the king's palace said etiquette was followed a bit loosely, especially within the shah's inner circle. Still, the young lord chatted amiably with everyone as they sat by the table, and when Gieve took out his instrument, he straightened with obvious interest. Parsian Court Musician was well known for his skill after all.

Gieve cleared his throat, tuned his oud, and when he was completely sure he had his audience's undivided attention, he began.

He sang about the war, as he often did. Their adventures and experiences were so captivating that he hardly had to add his charm and skill with words to completely capture his listeners' attention.

And tonight, because there was a very nice, dark-skinned lady present at the feast, he sang about himself.

But the young lord's face went more and more confused as the song went on, and when it finally ended, he couldn't seem to stop himself from speaking.

"You mean to say," he began, unsure "That during the war against usurper Gadevi you once entered a massively fortified Sinduran fortress full of enemy soldiers, accompanied only by a translator who you heavily expected to be a traitor… And you somehow emerged alive?"

"Not only alive, my lord, but richer by a couple of necklaces and earrings all the lovely ladies at the fortress graciously gifted me with" Gieve flashed his teeth in a smile, unashamedly, even though Daryun rolled his eyes at him. Beside the knight, Jaswant looked thoroughly unamused but resigned to his fate. He knew this song well.

"Well forgive my boldness, but I find it hard to believe. The fact that you somehow survived is ludicrous in itself, but what I cannot explain is the fact that you would even _agree_ to such madness"

"Oh, I had an utmost faith in our esteemed Court Painter's plan"

And the second he said that, it was as if some invisible rift opened in the room, separating those who nodded in understanding, and those who looked skeptical, disbelieving. And that second demonstrated better than any other explanation ever could the difference between Parsian generations, the difference between those who saw the war and those who didn't.

(and, most of all, the difference between those who were there at the young prince's side, long years ago

and those who weren't)

Because there were people who repeatedly put their lives in their tactician's hands, walked into the lion's den with only his promise as a reassurance that they would come out alive, held their breaths as their fates were decided and knew all of them had to act like a well oiled machine, but that machine would only succeed if that one man had been right…

Those people understood.

But king Arslan's reign was, above all, a peaceful one. And while Narsus was always ready to guide and advice, he was mostly seen painting and writing and reading, and as shocking as it might be, some people didn't know him as anything else.

They turned their eyes to him now, sitting with a small smile, sipping his Nabeed without any comment, and they tried to imagine him on the battlefield, covered in dust and blood. And, judging by their expressions, many of them failed.

And suddenly Gieve thought about all his other songs, about stories that were true because even _he_ wouldn't be able to come up with tales so incredible, so thrilling. And he thought about all his listeners, who might not believe a word of them, simply because _they weren't there._

Did they think he exaggerated Daryun's colossal strength, his unwavering loyalty? Did they not believe Jaswant's journey from traitorous enemy to most trusted friend? Did they think him blinded by Farangis' beauty when he sang about her fearless search for a young prince, about arrows that found impossible targets? About Elam bravely scouting mountain passages full of enemies, infiltrating their cities and camps, about Alfreed leading troops in the darkest forests, as sure of her command at sixteen as she was now, as general?

Were their lives so unbelievable?

The war was long and brutal, but the war has passed. And along with it, passed the need for heroic deeds. But it still happened, it pushed them to their limits and shaped them into something sharp and strong and unbreakable, and of all people, Gieve, the crafter of stories, should've known how legends were born.

Daryun the Brave. Narsus the Wise. And Arslan, yes, Arslan the Kind, Arslan the Liberator, Arslan, the heroic king of Pars.

And whether people believed it or not, it didn't matter. These stories were true. All those acts of bravery and faith and love, they've done them all. So Gieve would keep singing, and his songs would make people laugh and cry and _remember them_ , remember everything they accomplished and everything they _were,_ and his songs would be sung for centuries to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Etolie jumped from her horse energetically, as if her big stomach didn't restrict her movement in any way. The court medic made a move as if to catch or steady her, but she obviously didn't need any assistance. So he stayed put, perhaps looking a bit pale and vaguely as if he was in the early stages of small heart attack.

Arslan walked down the castle steps to greet his wife, the smile on his face always growing that much brighter in her presence. She didn't wait for him to approach before launching into reporting her findings.

"It really is as bad as the messengers said, the flood destroyed a good part of fields all around the Naravis plains" she leaned to accept a quick kiss on the cheek without missing a beat "We need to lift their taxes for at least two years, let them rebuild in peace. They will need some monetary aid as well"

Arslan nodded, furrowing his brows, and they were already deep in discussion about their options when they started making their way up to the castle. A meeting to find a solution would be called soon, even this evening perhaps, but the royal couple would have thought of several ideas by then and they would ask their advisors for _more_.

People around them – Queen's entourage and Kings attendants - exchanged fond glances. Their duties were numerous and diverse, but more often than not they included forcing their rulers to rest. But today, they let the pair go.

It was completely common sight in the castle, Arslan and Etoile in heated discussion about import regulations, or tax system reforms, or the philosophy of some new religion that began blooming in the city. The issues that demanded their attention were neverending and as much as they trusted their advisors' opinion, the final decision was always theirs to make. And they tried their hardest to make it an informed and well thought-of one.

And their debates were a sight to behold. They had very different ways of thinking and were committed to them strongly, so when they tried to convince one another it was _fierce_. The Queen was one of those very few people who could really get under Arslan's skin, who could get him worked up, and their political discussions usually took shape of a passionate verbal sparring. They exchanged ideas and arguments just like seasoned warriors exchange well placed blows, going toe to toe in reasoning and logic. Their discussions tended to result in unheard of approaches and new policies that gave court advisors a headache, made Narsus laugh in delight and, ultimately, always made the life of Parsian people a little bit better.

When the pair entered royal quarters, they were still deep in discussion. Elam was just finishing setting the dishes on the table, quietly talking with Alfreed and probably berating her for leaning back in the chair the way she was, while she gleefully ignored him. Upon seeing them, Etoile started rummaging through her pockets, only to bring out a small package.

"Here!" she threw it at Elam, who caught it effortlessly, before actually looking up from what he was doing. Sometimes people forgot that their calm and composed Main Advisor had senses sharp like a cobra and was a skilled fighter in his own right. And it was just as well, since underestimating an enemy was a first step to losing to them, and Elam didn't want to be praised for his strength or swiftness anyway. He took his responsibilities as a advisor very seriously and spent most of his time in meetings or buried deep in important documents and books.

And, of course, cooking for his friends sometimes, for no other reason that he liked to take care of them. He basically took charge of preparing meals for Etoile during her pregnancy and it filled Arslan's heart with gratitude and warmth.

Elam looked at the small package with question in his eyes.

"Hapao spice" Etoile explained "We passed a caravan and I've noticed they had it, figured you might like it" And the next instant she was already sitting next to Alfreed who was leaning back in her chair more and more, launching into a story of one ambush or another, not giving a wide-eyed Elam a chance to thank her for a gift, they all knew, cost a small fortune and was not easy to find, much less to just _notice_ out of nowhere.

But Etoile was already gesticulating wildly and the marzban had thrown her head back in laughter, and all Elam could do was look at Arslan helplessly. And Arslan only shrugged, used to odds and quirks of this strange little family of his, and his heart grew warmer still.

So Elam put the package in his pocket, his eyes distant, betraying his mind that was already brimming with new possibilities and dishes he wanted to try out.

But he finished arranging plates and soon he and Alfreed excused themselves, leaving their friends to finally rest and reunite properly. And both smiled to themselves, exasperated, when they've heard the royal couple return to the previous discussion before the door was even properly closed behind them.

Because Etoile and Arlsan had missed each other terribly, of course, but there were people who needed their help _right now_ and both of them had priorities set in stone.

They were royalty and, as shocking as it might be for many other kings and queens, to them it meant _serving_ their people. And it wasn't easy, especially for rulers as young as them. But for all of their differences they believed in the same future and were ready to work tirelessly to create it, supporting each other every step of the way. Etoile was passion to Arlsan's steadiness, and he was kind and forgiving nature to her constant fury at the world's unfairness, and together they were fire and steel, warrior and protector.

Nobody was really sure how Etoile got involved with their king. Many different stories circled the court, stories about slavers and young pages and unbelievable coincidences. For years, she was appearing at his side only to be gone again, but that too had became their constant, Arslan's constant, and all of them always greeted her with a smile and friendship and trust, which she returned by fighting by their side fearlessly.

Until one day she returned to stay.

Everyone agreed that Arslan gathered a lot of peculiar people around him, but none of them more so, than his Queen. Wearing trousers, arguing loudly with foreign dignitaries, swordfighting on par with Eran Daryun, unafraid and unashamed. She was breaking as many social customs and outdated court rules as Arslan was, just by being herself. She shocked, and in some cases antagonized, but stood straight and proud, with the burden of responsibility on her shoulders and hope for the future in her eyes.

She talked to the villagers when they complained about their lords and she listened to the lords when they wanted a change in ineffective regulations. She was the one who led troops to the rescue when a battle went downhill. She fought an assassin, once, when they poisoned Arslan, and forced them to give up an antidote. And then, when his life was still hanging by a thread, she stood in the throne room, tall and unshakable, listening to ambassadors from other countries as they tried to intimidate Pars in its time of crisis, and not backing down in the face of their threats, not giving _an inch_ that could be used against her country.

The Lioness, they whispered, coining a title that would be passed down the generations. Passionate and untamed, a companion to the legendary king and a fierce ruler on her own, baring her teeth for all enemies to see.

And Parsian people saw that, and the love for their peculiar queen bloomed in their chests. And a proud satisfaction that, no matter who would try to harm them, they would quickly discover what happened to those who threaten lioness' cubs.


	5. Chapter 5

Gieve wedged himself firmly between Farangis and her new admirer, effectively cutting off his overblown speech about her beauty and all of her other virtues. Of which, admittedly, he didn't know that many. Farangis was ignoring him for the better part of the evening already, acting nothing but professional, and somehow being all the colder for it. But the man beside her refused to be that easily dissuaded. He tried to match her with drinking as well, which only made his tongue that much looser and his company that much more unwelcome.

But Gieve ignored him completely, turning fully to lady Farangis and striking conversation about the latest court gossip. She liked to be informed and Gieve was just nosy, and so there was always something new to talk about, some new information to share.

Gieve's words were coated in his usual compliments, which got ignored by her with ease born out of habit, and the conversation flowed easily between them, sprinkled with occasional jokes and jabs. The intruder, sitting behind Gieve, tried to interrupt or join them on several occasions, but got talked over by the court musician every single time. And though he was visibly not happy, he obviously had enough sense left in his drunk mind to not cause a scene during royal banquet. So eventually he got up and left, without so much as a pause in the conversation between the two.

He didn't know that Farangis observed his retreating form from the corner of her eye. And thought only those who knew them best were able to tell, the air around them shifted. Farangis relaxed, just the tiniest bit, and Gieve stopped being overly cocky. Their smiles turned a little bit more genuine, the light in their eyes grew a little bit more cheeky.

"What an absolute barbarian, am I right?" he said, less adoringly and more jokingly than just few moments ago, and she just rolled her eyes.

Yes, Gieve was a ladies' man and Farangis was unarguably one of the most beautiful women he ever saw. When they first met, it was only natural for him to try and woo her. He didn't know her beyond the silk of her hair and ivory of her skin.

And it was only natural for Farangis to despise him for it, just as she despised all other lustful men, swarming around her like a cloud of mindless flies, getting in her way, buzzing their pointless compliments.

But then the war stretched and stretched, and they spent more and more time with each other. And in Gieves' eyes Farangis stayed as beautiful as the day he first met her, even after long and gruesome battles when her skin was covered in blood and gore, even after exhausting nights of scouting when her hair got tangled and greasy.

She stayed beautiful, but he stopped caring about that. Because during these long months he saw how fierce she could be on the battlefield. How merciless, when she protected those she cared for. How clever, when she joked with friends afterwards.

And with a surprise he discovered that he, too, wanted to protect those he cared for. That he could be fierce and merciless just like her, when the situation called for it.

That, gods almighty, he wanted to be her friend.

She noticed the shift in him even before he did.

And yet, not much had changed between them, at least for the eyes of those who didn't know them well. He didn't stop composing songs for her and praising her skills on every occasion that presented itself – he wouldn't be Gieve if he did. But his words became more teasing than serious, and now when she rebuffed him there was laughter in her eyes as well.

Trusting each other on the battlefield came fast – it had to, considering the circumstances of their meeting. But now they started to trust each other with silences during night watches, with amused eyes meeting across the room during some more hilarious castle antics, with evenings spent just drinking and talking.

With Gieve playing into his head-over-heels-for-Lady-Farangis role in order to get rid of persistent men.

He knew she could deal with them herself. Gods knew she dealt with _Gieve_ for a long time, and with Kubard, and with Rajendra, and with many others who had more guts than self preservation, who were now lost to the memory and probably also to the world of the living. Yes, Farangis could deal with her problems well enough.

But the thing was – she shouldn't _have_ to.

And that's what friends were for, weren't they?

He looked around, meeting eyes of some hopeful looking men who seemed to be waiting for Gieve to leave her side. He smiled at them brightly as he took out his Oud, announcing the ode to Lady Farangis' valour, with just enough flourish to make her just the right amount of exasperated and pleased – she liked her compliments, and Gieve was a masterful bard who knew how to pay them, after all.

The potential admirers looked at him with annoyance, and his friends looked at him with laughter, and Farangis looked at him with a word "dumbass" written clear in every line of her face. But it was a face full of fondness nonetheless, so he just threw his head back and laughed. And began.


End file.
